April 14, 2014

when the cousins come

When the cousins came to visit last week they weren't two seconds inside the house before they were asking to see the praying mantis, hold the beetles, pet the bunny, and go for a walk out in the desert which they hoped was teeming with rattlesnakes.

And besides swimming in the pool from dawn to dusk, that's pretty much what they did.

Do you ever go for nature walks, dear reader? It's not really the same thing as a hike, since covering ground isn't the main priority. It might only require a few steps, depending on one's curiosity and the range of discoveries which can be made within a small radius.

It strikes me the things which really matter in raising a child, the things which help build a happy, secure, dynamic human being are essentially free. I shared my thoughts on this topic once before so I won't bother to rehash the lecture, but during this past week I was reminded again how important it is to let children experience nature, to encourage their curiosities, to let them observe the outdoors and share those moments with them.

Moving along...Sherlock hasn't molted yet and I'm beginning to think he never will. He keeps acting like he's going to and then changes his mind.

And I keep falling for it.

Finally...I'm probably going to take a little break from Tollipop (again). I need to finish the revision of my novel and decide what to do next...whether to let it sit awhile, find someone to read it for me, or just launch another revision, which I know it needs.

The strangest thing about writing is how lonely the process can be. Writing is like wandering through an entire world of one's making which is both magical and yet immensely solitary at once. Beyond that, writing doesn't let you pass easily back into the world where everyone else lives. It holds onto you, somehow, it keeps you in a strange dream. I don't hang out with writers nor find many moments to "discuss the craft," except when I force the conversation upon my husband. So...I'm in this place, arranging and rearranging words, making this world from my imagination exist in another realm but let's face it, it might not be that great. It's one thing to picture something in your head and quite another to bring it through a medium into the harsh light of day.

But I'm this far down the path and there really doesn't seem much else to do but keep on going.

Comments

when the cousins come

When the cousins came to visit last week they weren't two seconds inside the house before they were asking to see the praying mantis, hold the beetles, pet the bunny, and go for a walk out in the desert which they hoped was teeming with rattlesnakes.

And besides swimming in the pool from dawn to dusk, that's pretty much what they did.

Do you ever go for nature walks, dear reader? It's not really the same thing as a hike, since covering ground isn't the main priority. It might only require a few steps, depending on one's curiosity and the range of discoveries which can be made within a small radius.

It strikes me the things which really matter in raising a child, the things which help build a happy, secure, dynamic human being are essentially free. I shared my thoughts on this topic once before so I won't bother to rehash the lecture, but during this past week I was reminded again how important it is to let children experience nature, to encourage their curiosities, to let them observe the outdoors and share those moments with them.

Moving along...Sherlock hasn't molted yet and I'm beginning to think he never will. He keeps acting like he's going to and then changes his mind.

And I keep falling for it.

Finally...I'm probably going to take a little break from Tollipop (again). I need to finish the revision of my novel and decide what to do next...whether to let it sit awhile, find someone to read it for me, or just launch another revision, which I know it needs.

The strangest thing about writing is how lonely the process can be. Writing is like wandering through an entire world of one's making which is both magical and yet immensely solitary at once. Beyond that, writing doesn't let you pass easily back into the world where everyone else lives. It holds onto you, somehow, it keeps you in a strange dream. I don't hang out with writers nor find many moments to "discuss the craft," except when I force the conversation upon my husband. So...I'm in this place, arranging and rearranging words, making this world from my imagination exist in another realm but let's face it, it might not be that great. It's one thing to picture something in your head and quite another to bring it through a medium into the harsh light of day.

But I'm this far down the path and there really doesn't seem much else to do but keep on going.